


Kestrel in Distress

by bioloyg



Series: Not Your Pawn [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, BAMF Bucky Barnes, First Kiss, Getting Together, Hurt Sam, Hurt/Comfort, I'm so sorry Sam i love you I promise, Kidnapped Sam, M/M, Recovery, Torture, Winter Falcon, honestly sam is a trooper, i'll add more tags for the second chapter, original characters - hydra, sam literally just wanted to make an omelette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-07-26 23:12:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7594147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bioloyg/pseuds/bioloyg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a price to pay for being friends with the former Winter Soldier, but Steve was unavailable for comment so <em>Sam’s</em> ass is the one that ends up being kidnapped. And if that’s not bad enough, these guys expect Sam to roll over and give Bucky, and all his secrets, up without a fight.<br/>Sam may hate the way Bucky sticks his spoon in the sugar after it’s been in his coffee, but he’s not about to throw a fellow vet under the bus. Not for his own life or anyone else’s.<br/>~<br/>"Sam lets a sharp breath out of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut until phosphenes explode behind his eyelids. He needs to keep a positive attitude. The moment he shows weakness to anyone, even himself, is the moment this all goes downhill.<br/><em>As if it isn’t downhill already</em>, Sam grumbles internally."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Capture (Seven steps to make it out alive)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so, _originally_ this fic was supposed to be based off of this light and funny prompt [right here](http://bioloyg.tumblr.com/post/146941423036/sambucky-headcanon-sam-gets-captured-by-hydra-or).  
>  However, I got carried away (as I often do), and this got long and then jumped from potentially funny to actually hurtful, so... sorry in advance.
> 
> I also wasn't going to split it into two chapters initially, but because I live to suffer this fic has gotten LONG, and it makes sense to chop it in half (not really in half but whatever).  
> Anyway, this is that god awful 15k kidnapping fic that's now longer than that haha.  
> Don't expect the second half until next week though!
> 
> Unbeta'd as always, any and all mistakes are mine, but do feel free to point 'em out if you catch 'em.

All Sam wanted was to get some groceries.

Eggs, a little bit of artisanal cheese, some black forest ham; that’s it. He was just minding his own business, even brought reusable bags and thanked the cashier. He knows as a former Avenger that it’s a little bit too much to ask for some god damn normalcy in his life, but being kidnapped in the middle of loading groceries into his car? That’s some next level bullshit.

Now his eggs are gonna go bad. And he _really_ wanted to make an omelette tomorrow morning. Sam supposes it should be sad that things like this are so commonplace now that his only thought upon being kidnapped is, _damn I really wanted that ham and swiss omelette I saw on Pinterest._ However, he’ll take the indignant resignation over panicked confusion any day. It’s kind of his fault anyway, Sam thinks. This _is_ what he gets for going grocery shopping in the middle of the night. No omelette, and an egg on the side of his head from being hit with what Sam can only assume was a crowbar, or something equal in weight.

He was trying to avoid the crowds. Sometimes everything gets to be too loud… too _much_. It puts Sam on edge. And then there’s the added bonus of being a wanted criminal with a bounty on his head, which keeps him from being out in broad daylight for extended periods of time. Both out of necessity and because of a deep rooted anxiety he can’t always push down.

He’s paying for all of that and more when he comes to in a pitch black enclosure.

Sam rolls his eyes and groans. It’s more of a muffled harrumph because of the duct tape keeping his mouth shut, but that’s beside the point. He’s more concerned with the throbbing pain that cascades down the whole left side of his face every time the car he’s in hits a bump. Or maybe it’s an SUV. He can’t tell shit right now. It’s too dark, and he has no way of knowing how long he’s been out.

All in all, it’s not the best way to start his weekend by any standards. But in all honesty, Sam has had worse. So far, falling from a helicarrier thousands of feet in the sky tops his list. That being said, it’s still pretty awful being stuck in a trunk, so Sam tries to focus on getting himself out of the situation as soon as possible.

**Step One: Observe your surroundings.**

Sam swallows but the motion is cumbersome, his saliva thick. He blinks rapidly to clear the fog from his eyes in hopes of making something out and tries to take a steadying breath. There’s no way he’ll be able to focus if his heartrate is through the roof, and an anxiety attack would be _extremely_ counterproductive. Not to mention his captor(s) would love using that against him.

It’s still too dark for Sam to see anything back here, but he has at least gathered he isn’t in a van. Normally, that would be good news. Vans are creepy; cars, typically, are not. But vans have open space. The trunk of your average sedan is not that spacious, in case you were wondering.

So, not only can Sam _not_ see what’s going on around him or hear his captor(s) with the ease that being in a van might have afforded him, his air supply is pretty limited. Not because the trunk is airtight, though. It’s just that, with every breath out, Sam is pushing more and more oxygen from the space and filling it with carbon dioxide. Something that _will_ kill him given enough time. Unless the suffocating heat of the enclosed space gets to him first.

_Calm down. There’s no use getting yourself worked up. If they kidnapped you, they need you alive._

Sam takes another deep breath in through his nose and holds it for as long as possible, which isn’t very long because the breath wasn’t that deep to begin with. He’s been forced into something akin to the fetal position because of his stature, so expanding his lungs to their full capacity isn’t exactly an option right now. Sam powers through it anyway.

Alright. Observations.

He’s in a car, or something with a trunk, and there’s no light getting through to the area so it’s still night time. That much is certain... _Probably_.

But what about his captor(s)?

Sam closes his eyes, even though he can’t see anything, and tries to focus on sounds. Anything the world is kind enough to give him. Unfortunately, all he’s afforded is the muffled, but loud, radio coming from the other side of the seats and the whir of tires on pavement. The steady hum of the tires lets him know he’s on a highway of some sort, probably newer, but his lack of time in the area has him at a loss for _which_ highway.

 _Fuck Iowa_ , Sam thinks bitterly. _Who the fuck gets their ass kidnapped in Iowa, anyway?_

Sam pushes past the mental intrusion and tries not to seethe. Seething is for people with unlimited air supplies and he doesn’t have the luxury. The thought doesn’t exactly work to calm him though.

In his haze of irritation, Sam kicks at the side of the trunk and makes a low sound in the back of his throat.

He kicks at the side of the trunk and _his legs actually move_.

Stilling, Sam looks down at his legs. It takes him a fraction of a second to remember that looking is futile since he doesn’t have night vision, but he tests out his legs anyway the best he can in such a cramped space. The good news is: he can move them independently. With that in mind, Sam tests his arms hoping that the gods above are benevolent enough to have given him stupid captors. No luck there. His wrists are bound together, and tightly too. Sam’s guessing more duct tape. There’s no tape in between his wrists though, only around them as a pair, so Sam counts that as a win.

It’ll be a pain in the ass, but if he takes his time he could probably stretch the duct tape enough to get free. Maybe even without being noticed. And once he’s freed up – he’s ripping the duct tape off his face and beating the shit out of whoever took him.

**Step Two: Why me?**

Sam fades in and out for a little while. Everything coming to him in stops and starts. Whoever hit Sam hit him _hard_ , so staying alert at all times has been difficult. Even for a trained individual like him.

Has Sam mentioned that he regrets going out by himself to get groceries so late at night? Because he really, _really_ does.

Sam hates to think he requires a buddy for something as simple as a grocery run, but tonight about proves it would be best if he traveled with one from now on. That was tonight, right?

He really hopes he hasn’t slept through a whole day. It’s bad enough that he can’t tell how many people captured him, he doesn’t need to be losing such big chunks of time too. The fact that he’s lost any at all has pretty much guaranteed Sam knows absolutely nothing about his location. It’s not like he could do anything with that information if he _did_ know though, so he’s not going to get bent out of shape about it.

 _Moving on,_ Sam thinks. He takes a deep breath in through his nose and wiggles his hands around a bit to wake them up. Somewhere along the line he managed to get himself on his back, which is doing wonders for his breathing but far worse on his arms than being on his side was.

At this point Sam has settled into the fact that this experience is going to be a list of tradeoffs. Want to breathe? Sacrifice blood-flow to your arms. Want to keep your arms in good shape in case you need to fight someone? Get used to taking shallow breaths. And those shallows breaths will fuck you over when you realize how little oxygen can seep through the cracks in a trunk to replace what you’ve taken. Then you end right back up where you started, on your back, taking in deep breaths to hold like your life depends on it. Because it does.

 _Vicious circle_ , Sam thinks.

He shifts until the position he’s in can pass for comfortable and stares in the direction of the door to the trunk. It’s a blank canvas for him to lay his thoughts out on, a black board. He’s staring at a black board. At least that’s what Sam tells himself so he can ignore the fact that claustrophobia may become a very real thing for him in the future.

Sam shakes his head. _Focus on getting out. Stop thinking about all that extra bullshit._

Getting out… Okay.

The second step to making it out of this in one piece is to figure out who took him and why. As a former Avenger and newly wanted man, Sam has two guesses. It’s either someone who wants leverage over the Avengers, or someone who wants Sam dead.

Despite feeling as though his ties to the Avengers are too weak to be worth any true leverage, Sam hopes it’s the former and not the latter. Sam can play hostage all day. His run in the army made sure of that. Playing dead on the other hand? Well, let’s just say it’d be a riveting performance and any awards would have to be given _posthumously_.

Sam lets a sharp breath out of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut until phosphenes explode behind his eyelids. He needs to keep a positive attitude. The moment he shows weakness to anyone, even himself, is the moment this all goes downhill.

 _As if it isn’t downhill already,_ Sam grumbles internally.

He shakes the stray thoughts off again and focuses on the aches and pains in his body instead; and as awful as it is, the pain keeps Sam focused. Makes him angry and determined. He needs to stay lucid enough to _think_ and if anger is what helps him do that then so be it.

Now, back to business. Why would anyone want Sam? What does he have to offer to a kidnapper?

He’s not exactly aligned with Stark – especially not after everything that happened with Rhodey – so it’s not like they’re going to be getting any money out of the deal. Sam doesn’t have super powers, in the genetic sense anyway, so they can’t exploit his DNA. But maybe it’s because of his knowledge of the Avengers and not so much what they can barter Sam for.

That would also suck, because his knowledge on the Avengers outside of Steve is hit or miss. Granted, Sam knows more than the public, but not by much. Somehow he has a feeling that knowing Banner’s favorite breakfast cereal isn’t going to get him out of this.

Sam’s in the middle of another list of reasons why someone would kidnap him when the car he’s in takes an abrupt turn. A right, if Sam’s directionality is to be trusted in complete darkness. A right that sends Sam flying to the left where he hits his head against the side wall. A small groan slips past the duct tape covering his mouth only to be eaten up by screeching tires. This time Sam goes flying backward and his shoulder takes a less than friendly hit.

They stopped the car, and they obviously don’t give a shit about Sam’s wellbeing back here. Which leads to…

**Step Three: Getting to know your captor(s).**

If your captors are willing to feed you, clothe you, and meet other small ~~demands~~ requests then they probably want to trade you for something. That something can either be money, more money, something that was taken from them, or even _more_ money. Point is, your kidnappers need you in near mint condition to get more out of the deal.

However, if your captors beat you over the head to incapacitate you, hogtie you, and jerk you around a bunch without a care… Information is the game and you’re about as disposable as a plastic bag.

So far Sam would give this experience one star on Yelp, and only because he’s pretty sure that’s the lowest you can go, which means he’s most likely been kidnapped for information. And judging by the fact that there are a handful of other Avengers, and supers for that matter, he’s looking pretty damn expendable at the moment.

 _Shit_.

Sam closes his eyes and resigns himself to what is probably going to be hell on earth. This wouldn’t be the first time he’s been tortured, and unless he’s killed it probably won’t be the last. And Sam _is_ going to be tortured. If it’s information these guys after, they can kiss his black ass.

Even though Tony tried to have Sam shot out of the sky, and then blasted him point blank, and had him sent to a prison under the literal sea, and then tried to kill Buc– the point is, Sam isn’t about to rat out a team member. Past or present. Especially not when it could cost innocent civilians their lives. Sam is willing to do penance to keep the others safe. Regardless of his personal grudges.

The trunk opens abruptly and without any warning. Before Sam can so much as _think_ about getting a look at who took him, the surroundings, or the make of the car, a black bag is put over his head and he’s pulled out of the trunk.

_Yep, probably gonna get the shit beat out of me._

Sam sighs through his nose and focuses on the ground he’s now horizontal on, which conveniently happens to be gravel. This is wonderful news for Sam’s hopes of being rescued. _Not_.

Gravel roads equal rural areas with low traffic. Iowa isn’t exactly a bustling metropolis to begin with, so this is even worse. That is, if he’s even _in_ Iowa right now.

Apparently Sam was expected to get up on his own with his hands tied behind his back because he’s suddenly he’s being kicked in the ribs without warning and given the harsh command to, “Get up. Now!”

Sam takes a minute to cough, which almost makes him choke because he still has tape on his mouth. He’s got one leg underneath himself when someone jerks him up by his left arm, which does all kinds of ugly things to his shoulder. After that it’s a blur of shoves and pointed jabs. Some of which are coming from the business end of a gun. A handheld of some sort, Sam thinks. Small.

But small can be lethal. Sam knows that all too well. A tiny mistake can send jets plummeting from the skies. A missed fraction of a second can mean losing your best friend to Hydra for 70 years.

 _Fuck_. _Fuck. **Fuck**._

Sam hadn’t even thought about Bucky until just now. Well, that’s a lie, but he hadn’t thought about what being kidnapped meant for Bucky.

The former Winter Soldier is more than capable of taking care of himself, as he’s told Sam before, but Sam promised Steve he wouldn’t leave Bucky alone for longer than was necessary. And while worrying about disappointing Steve isn’t high on Sam’s list of priorities right now, he’s not exactly getting the warm fuzzies thinking about how Bucky is alone in a crappy house in the middle of Iowa like a sitting duck for anyone that wants to take him out. Not that Bucky wouldn’t see them coming a mile away.

Regardless, this situation is only getting more and more unpleasant for Sam as time goes on. Steve is on the west coast with Natasha for some mission to extinguish a Hydra cell and gave no indication how long that might take. That was four days ago – or four days from when Sam went grocery shopping – _whatever_.

The point is, no one is coming for Sam. Bucky could, but Sam would almost rather he didn’t. Pushing aside the fact that Bucky is a recovering prisoner who was only recently deprogrammed, he _just_ got a new arm from T’challa no more than 2 months ago.

Sam is vividly picturing Bucky getting his arm blasted off a second time when he’s forced onto his knees. The black bag over his face is then ripped off, but Sam’s eyes take a minute to adjust to all of the light. He was definitely right about one thing, he notes as his vision clears up, he’s out in the middle of nowhere for sure.

The barn he’s currently on his knees in looks decrepit. The metal panels that are exposed are bronzed over with rust, the lighting above is coming from very questionable sources, the hay covering the floor has almost become one with the dirt, and the smell of mildew is all around. All that’s missing is a pitchfork that could give him tetanus, even if he only touched the wooden handle.

But that’s okay, because the man standing in front of Sam makes up for it by pulling out some sort of ugly tactical knife from a holster on his thigh. The man himself looks like if you were to pluck a someone from a country club and spray paint their clothes and accessories black. High maintenance, but imposing. Slicked back hair that’s blond as the summer sun, but no ascot or nine-iron.

The only ‘difference’ between this guy and the typical country club member is the giant burn scar on the left side of his face and neck. Something about his posture tells Sam there’s a lot more where that came from hidden underneath his pressed black jacket.

Despite seeing only one person, this _incredibly_ creepy man who looks like a Ken doll from the burn ward, Sam has a gut feeling there are more. Probably whoever pushed him in here. Sam isn’t going to underestimate Ken doll’s ability to kidnap people on his own – he’s jacked – but this is a little more thought out than a one-person job might’ve been.

This tells Sam two new things: One, the reason he was kidnapped is bigger than him as a person. Two, he’s fucked as far as escaping on his own is concerned. That’s not to say that Sam won’t think of a way to try, but the fact that he’s looking at his captor’s face right now lets him know he’s probably not meant to make it out of this alive.

Sam gives himself a week before they find a way to dispose of him, tops, and that’s on the generous side of things.

Behind Sam, a car door slams. He moves toward the sound, naturally, but no sooner than Sam does, imitation two-face grabs his chin. “Don’t worry about that,” says the man. His voice is heavy, dripping with disdain, and there’s a Slavic edge to his words.

Sam hates him already. Everything in his body makes him want to say, _touch my face again and I’ll break your fingers_ , but Sam doesn’t let a single sound escape. He can’t, anyway. Not with the duct tape over his mouth

The man holding Sam’s face tuts and makes a disappointed sound in the back of his throat. “Quiet are we?” He squeezes Sam’s cheeks with the one hand like an attentive grandmother and then laughs. “Oh that’s right. Silly me, I’ve got your mouth duct taped shut.”

Just like everything else so far, the duct tape is ripped from Sam’s mouth with little warning. Forget chapstick, Sam’s lips should be smooth for a while after this because at least two layers of skin cells are stuck to the tape that’s on the floor now.

Sam wets his lips and rubs them together before taking in a proper deep breath. Not only does it keep him from saying some stupid shit right off the bat, it keeps him level headed, and that helps with…

**Step Four: ~~Don’t piss off your captor(s)~~. Don’t say _shit_ until you have to.**

“Sam.” The man across from him pats the side of Sam’s face with the broad side of his knife. Again Sam is confronted with a wave of irritation threatening to make him say something decidedly uncooperative.

“That is your name, right? Or is this a fake?” He pulls Sam’s wallet from where it was stashed away in his own coat pocket and allows it to fall open, revealing Sam’s license.

Sam rolls his eyes, but doesn’t answer, which only makes the man laugh again as he tosses it to the floor. “You know, carrying a fake I.D. is a felony in some states.”

“And what, kidnapping is a slap on the wrists to you?” Sam drawls before he can stop himself. He lets a quick breath out of his nose and tries not to think about the ache growing in his knees, or how much he wants to headbutt this guy. He shifts from knee to knee until one of those feelings lessens.

The black-clad man leans back and smiles down at Sam as he twirls the knife in his hands. “Now, now. We didn’t kidnap you. You’ve been _chosen_ , Sam.” Every other facial expression, body movement, and word from his lips is twined with condescension and an underlying venom telling Sam to watch himself.

When the man stares at him expectantly a little too long Sam lets out a long suffering sigh and asks, “For what?” like he’s obviously supposed to.

After stepping forward, Scarface crouches down and gently drags the tip of his knife down Sam’s cheek as he whispers, “To tell us about your friend, _Bucky._ ” He punctuates the last word by pressing his knife into Sam’s chin, cutting him.

It takes everything in Sam’s power not to flinch, to give away what he knows with his eyes. He turns his head to the side and calmly wipes the blood from his chin onto his shoulder, saying only, “You must have the wrong guy, because I don’t have a friend named Bucky.”

Sam would like to amend his earlier statement. He wants – no – he _needs_ Bucky to stay the hell **_out_** of this. And not because of his recovery or his arm, because this guy right here is most likely Hydra or someone of equally despicable standing. No one asks about Bucky without wanting to know about the Winter Soldier, and Sam refuses to let Bucky be someone’s war toy again.

“Wrong answer,” burn victim Ken sighs just before backhanding Sam.

Sam squeezes his eyes shut to steady the tears that well up before responding with, “Wrong guy.”

There’s a moment of tense silence then. Creepy Ken doll nods at someone behind Sam and suddenly he’s being jerked to his feet by the back of his collar. Sam clears his throat once he’s up and tries to ignore the fact that there are two enormous men at his side now. Kind of nondescript in the sense that they look similar to one another, but they’re definitely not people Sam is going to forget any time soon. Each of them has got him beat by three inches in height if not more, and they’ve got a tense set to their jaws.

There’s a clear hierarchy here too. Blondie is obviously in charge, and these two guys are his lackeys. However, Sam can tell if he even _thinks_ about undermining Ken doll he’ll end up with a bullet in his knee cap. There’s already a gun pressed to his right kidney.

The silence drags on so long that Sam’s anxiousness melts away into irritation. But before he can get impatient enough to ask these guys to get a move on with the show, the man Sam’s now referring to as burn victim Ken (BVK) steps forward again. Having gathered his patience, BVK sheaths his ridiculously large knife that he’s obviously using to compensate for something and clasps his hands behind his back. Which makes him look oddly similar to Sam.

But they’re oh so different, too.

Where Sam’s hands are _forced_ behind his back, Militia Ken has his gently draped – casual almost, despite his commanding demeanor. And while Sam’s posture falters under the weight of how exhausted he is, his captor stands tall like an imposing porcelain figurine. They’re as black and white a pair as their skin suggests.

 “Mr. Wilson, before we go any further, I’d like to ask you a question.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “And that would be...?”

A muscle in BVK’s jaw tenses. “What do you expect to gain from lying to me?”

 _Bucky’s continued freedom._ Sam presses his lips together and pretends he’s thinking about something else before he answers with, “Nothing. My momma raised me not to lie, sir.”

“I think she’d be very disappointed in you today then. Did she punish you when you lied?”

Ah, and here’s where Sam is forced to walk into something he’d rather stay out of. He can take it though. He _will_ take it. Better him than Bucky, so Sam says, “Yes. She did.”

Blondie nods, sage. “I bet she did. And so will I.”

Sam levels him with a look he’s hoping reads, _is that all?_

“We’re going to try this again,” the man says.

Tweedle dee and Tweedle dum tighten their grip on Sam’s arms as if signaled by something in BVK’s voice. “Do you or do you not know a Bucky Barnes?”

“Still not ringing any bells,” Sam says. There isn’t a single ounce of hesitation in his voice.

Sam’s shoved to his knees again, and before he can even think about telling Blondie to make up his mind the hulking man to his left pistol whips him. “How’s that for ringing bells?” he growls.

Sam decides to change his name to Tweedle dick.

“Sergei, leave extraction to me please,” BVK says, his voice cool and stern. The fact that the goon’s name is thrown out so casually only solidifies the fact that they’re going to kill Sam once they have what they want. Distantly, Sam wonders how helpful stalling them like this is if they’re just going to off him in the end anyway. Is he signing his death warrant, or stalling the pen?

Dark Malibu Ken bats Sergei away and picks Sam back up until he’s kneeling again. The leering look he casts on Sam’s bloodied face sends an unpleasant chill through Sam’s core. It’s only worsened when BVK slowly pulls the garish black knife back out of its holster and drags it down the length of Sam’s shirt, exposing his chest. He smiles at Sam once he’s looked his fill and says, “I’m going to keep a tally for every time you lie to me. We’ll make an honest man out of you in no time, Sam.”

BVK keeps his word and carves three marks into Sam’s chest, just beneath his left collar bone. Sam grits his teeth for the first one, but by the second a wounded sound escapes him. Blondie is obviously shooting for leaving scars, something he seems thrilled about when he’s finished admiring his work.

Sam doesn’t give Ken the satisfaction of meeting the predatory gaze. Instead he looks down and thinks about the placement of the marks, right on his left pectoral.

 _Cross my heart and hope to die_.

“Sam.” BVK snaps his fingers as though he’s been trying to get Sam’s attention for a while. He probably has. Sam got a little bit lost between the hits to the head and the shocking revelation that he’s actually willing to die for Bucky right now. And this isn’t some hypothetical or a traded phrase. The list of people Sam would _actually_ take a bullet for isn’t very long, and somehow cryofreeze made it.

 _Typical_ , Sam thinks to himself. _Die for someone who’d probably never do the same for you._ He tries not to be bitter about his heart’s decisions, but he is. Just a little. He soothes the wound by telling himself he’s doing it for more than just Bucky. He’s doing it for Steve and the people he swore to protect as both a soldier and an Avenger.

“ **Sam**. _Please_ try to pay attention.” BVK’s cheery façade has finally melted away and a sincere look of frustration colors his face. “I’m feeling generous for whatever reason today, so I’m going to give you one more chance. I’ll even try to clear some things up for you, just in case you were mistaken because we know him by different names. The Winter Soldier, formerly known as James Buchanan Barnes, you know him don’t you?”

Sam looks up and narrows his eyes. “Never heard of him.”

BVK takes a deep breath and waves a hand at his two lackeys, shooing them from the area altogether. He shakes his head once they’re gone and licks his lips. “S’a shame you’re so dark. I won’t be able to properly enjoy all the bruises you’re begging for right now.”

“I think the only way you could possibly be more racist is if you called me a negro,” Sam replies evenly.

‘ _So dark_.’ _Man, fuck off. It’s a shame you’re so pale that I can see your internal organs._

“Not racist, just an observation.”

Sam lets out a tired sigh. “You can make racist observations.”

“ _Enough_ ,” BVK says, visibly flustered. “I will not be pulled off topic.”

 _You just were_ , Sam thinks, all too smug. It’s the little victories.

“We all know you’re friends with Bucky Barnes, so spare me the bullshit.”

Sam tries not to snort. Friends might be a little generous. Bucky can barely stand Sam on a good day, and Sam – well, Sam is still pissed at Bucky for ripping the steering wheel out of his car sometimes. That was his baby. But again, he isn’t about to say anything except this, “Still think you’ve got the wrong Sam.”

BVK heaves a put upon sigh and pulls gloves from his chest pocket. As he slips them on he says, “We’ll make sure you’re the right Sam by the end of all this.”

**Step Five: Survive. And stay positive if at all possible.**

Not possible.

It takes 17 more tally marks, almost drowning, and being tased four times for Sam’s resolve to finally wane. All he’s focusing on at this point is survival and that omelette he wanted. Positivity is not in the cards. Sometime during the first day Sam was freed from his duct tape handcuffs only to have the tattered remains of his shirt stripped for easier access to his skin. Then BVK put him in real cuffs and used them to string his arms up by a chain for when they wanted to punch Sam in the stomach. So, yeah – Sam’s not really holding out for a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow right now. He just wants to make it out of this alive if he can.

It’s been three days in this hell hole, according to Sam’s feeding schedule, and so far he’s been able to discern the following:

  1. Steve and Nat wasted their time going to the west coast find a Hydra cell because they’re right here. Well, one of the heads at least. Sam is pretty sure these guys tracked them down though because he has a hard time believing there was a Hydra base in Iowa for some reason.
  2. Hydra is _really_ suffering since their collapse two or so years ago as evidenced by the tools they have at their disposal to torture Sam with. Dunking someone is effective regardless of your budget though, all you need is water and a little bit of moxy.
  3. As a continuation of the previous point, the three men Sam met on the first day are the _only_ three he’s seen. Their names are Sergei, Alexander, and… well Sam still doesn’t know dark Malibu Ken’s name. Neither of the goons will say it.
  4. The shifts for watch are near indistinguishable. Sam feels like they change – but maybe they’re on time and he just can’t tell because he keeps _losing_ _time_. He’s thrown up once already so he knows he’s probably got a concussion, far be it from him to be a reliable source of information on schedules right now.
  5. They, Ken and crew, want Bucky back and they’re definitely in it to kill Steve at the end of everything. Cap causes too much trouble and he’s the only thing distracting Bucky from his ‘true purpose.’  
And finally, the only thing that makes Sam’s life worth living right now:
  6. Ken **_hates_** when Sam is sarcastic, facetious, or purposefully obtuse. Sam’s not quite sure why, but it ruffles his precious little peacock feathers like nothing else.



“Are you ready to cooperate yet, Sam?”

Sam opens his eyes and casts a look heavenward, praying for those last vestiges of his patience to come back. It’s a little late for that though, so after a moment he looks down and does his best to shrug with his arms over his head. “I don’t know. What’s on the menu? Gonna tase me again.” The only thing that gives away how much pain Sam’s in right how is the slight hitch of his voice towards the end.

BVK frowns. “I really don’t want to –”

“ _That’s_ a lie.”

“Oh, you’re so perceptive,” BVK intones. A sly grin creeps across his face, stopping at the left side. “Now, from the top. What can you tell me about – _Bucky_?”

Sam has stubbornly ignored any question about “the Winter Soldier,” which is why Malibu Barbie’s very angry husband says Bucky’s name with as much disdain as he can muster.

“He leaves his dirty socks everywhere,” Sam replies after a thoughtful pause.

He’s been going on like this for a few hours. Technically it’s not a lie, and it _is_ something Sam can tell them about Bucky. The dude really does leave his socks everywhere. It drives Sam up the wall. Just like Sam is driving BVK up the wall, right now.

Sam closes his eyes just before the next hit to his stomach. He coughs and tries to take a breath in but BVK grabs his face and says, “I’m tired of you playing with me,” right before he marks yet another tally. This time it’s dangerously close to Sam’s neck. He tries not to let the fear buzzing in his veins show.

Sam may have already made the decision to die in order to keep Bucky and everyone else in the immediate vicinity safe, but that doesn’t mean he wants this dragged out, or that he isn’t afraid. Sam is terrified. His sarcasm and misdirection may be keeping his spirits from falling through the floor, but it’s also costing him a lot of blood and peace.

But this isn’t about him.

 _This is bigger than you_ , Sam repeats, over and over, in his head. And with that in mind, Sam keeps going.

BVK will ask the same type of question thirty different ways. “Tell us about Bucky.” Or “Where is the asset?”

And Sam will answer in kind. “He’s got gorgeous blue eyes and long brown hair.” And “Probably getting those yogurt whips from the store. Refrigerators weren’t real big back in the day and he’s all over anything that comes from one.”

Over and over again. “Has the asset been damaged in any way, other than the brainwashing you’ve subjected him to?”

Sam tries really hard not to laugh at that one. “He stubbed his toe on the kitchen table the other day. Apparently that’s something that still hurts a lot even when you’re – y’know, _him_.”

And every time Sam does so he gets sucker punched, cut, tased, or something else of the like. But he endures the blinding headache pulsing in his skull and the ache in his jaw from where he’s clenched it a little too hard. Ignores it in favor of reminding himself that this is worth it. If not for the pained and frustrated look on Ken’s face, then because Bucky will be able to find peace in his life and Hydra will be short a hand.

So it goes on and on…

“What have you done with Bucky?”

“The other day I put saran wrap on the door frame and watched him walk into it. Other than that, I’m not sure what you mean.”

Until Malibu Ken decides to go full on Chucky and stab Sam in the side.

Sam grits his teeth so hard he swears he hears them cracking and when BVK twists the blade he stifles his cries into his bare shoulder. Despite the severity, Sam can tell it was only meant to hurt him, not kill him. It sure as hell got the point across.

Sam still isn’t listening though; he’s got selective hearing. He takes in a jagged breath and lets out a pained laugh. “Still don’t know where you guys are going with this. If you want him so bad why did you kidnap _me_? You’re obviously not getting anything from me.”

BVK stares blankly at Sam as if the answer should be obvious. “If we were to approach Bucky he would run – you’ve conditioned him to fear us. But, he feels safe with you…” BVK drags a finger down the wound in Sam’s left side with a look of misplaced longing and then rubs his blood covered fingertips together. A shiver creeps across Sam’s chest and he has to look away when Ken says, “I can see why.”

Sam’s gaze snaps back after a moment when the words have sunk in. His mouth is open and there are some _very_ opinionated things about to come out when Ken stops Sam to say, “So loyal. And pretty _too_. But not very smart…”

“You may think you’ve told us nothing of worth, that you’ve tricked us, but really you’ve proven a very important point. How _comfortable_ Bucky is with you.” He considers Sam for a moment before resting a hand on Sam’s cheek. “Which is why he’s going to do our work for us and come waltzing in here to save you – and Bucky _will_ look for you, that much is certain. Don’t you worry your pretty little head though, Samuel.” Ken sighs and drags his bloody thumb across Sam’s lips. “You’ll be dead before he makes it in the door.”

**Step Six: …**

Fuck.

 **Fucking _fuck_** …

Sam was trying so hard to make himself believe that Bucky didn’t give a shit about him. It made it easier for Sam to be upset about being a fugitive so soon after being an Avenger, made it easier for Sam to stay focused on _his_ life and _his_ problems. It also made it easier for Sam to ignore certain feelings that curled up right in his chest when Bucky smiled.

In the end all he was doing was lying to himself. Sam saw the way Bucky looked at him in the morning after a night of bad dreams – confused but appreciative that Sam made him tea instead of coffee so he could start the day with something sweet, not bitter. He even noticed the way Bucky would return the favor, silent apologies and repentance for the things he had done. He’d suffer through kitchen nightmares with Sam and ignore the color commentary, or bring Sam a blanket when he kept the house too cold.

But, Sam tried focusing on how aloof Bucky was on his bad days instead of how surprisingly warm he could be on his good ones. It made things easy. Cut and dry. And then he went and fucked it up.

Sam has been so focused on skirting around the truth that he didn’t even realize the importance of the things he _was_ saying. So out of his depth that he forgot the two most important things he told himself:

  1. This isn’t about you.
  2. Don’t say _shit_.



Somehow, Sam tricked _himself_ into proving a point he was so desperately trying to negate: He cares about Bucky and Bucky cares about him. And now third reich Ken over here is going to use that to manipulate Bucky, which is exactly what Sam wanted to avoid.

 ** _How fitting_** , says a dark corner of Sam’s mind that’s out to get him. **_A two for one. You got to watch Riley die, and now you get to see Bucky die, too_**.

Sam shakes his head and tries not to scream when Ken and Alexander take turns burning him. He takes in shallow breaths, panting like a dog left to rot out in the sun. _They won’t kill Bucky. They need him._

 ** _Oh but won’t they?_** His traitorous mind goes on. **_Bucky won’t be there when they’re finished. It’ll just be the Winter Soldier. But you’re right, you_** _won’t **see it. You’ll be dead long before.**_

_I already am._

Sam loses consciousness shortly after BVK tases him right over the stab wound from earlier. Repeatedly, while laughing.

**Step Seven: In the event you are rescued, stay out of the way.**

Sam wakes up groggy with dirt on his face and a splitting migraine. For a second he almost thinks he’s back in Afghanistan when all he hears is gunfire and distant screams. The pain feels all too similar, both emotionally and physically. He’s still in the barn though, he notes as he looks down at the greenish brown hay, but no one is watching him. There’s a moment of delay where all Sam can think to do is blink, his mind sticky and slow from both sleep and abuse, but then it hits him. _No one is watching_.

Sam sits up so fast the whole barn spins. He’s so momentarily excited that he forgets about the fact that gunshots are what woke him. He also forgets that he’s in handcuffs and that his mouth is duct taped again. Sam lets out a muffled groan and rolls his eyes. He can fix one of those things right now, but it’s not going to feel good.

Looking behind himself, Sam flexes his fingers. Ken and his goons made the mistake of keeping Sam in metal cuffs instead of the duct tape thinking it’d be more secure. But the handcuffs give him _room_.

Sam rolls onto his side and does his best not to dislocate his shoulders getting his arms out from behind himself. It takes a little bit longer than he cares for, and he opens up some cuts in the process, but as soon as it’s taken care of he rips the duct tape off his mouth and stares down at his cuffs. He’s halfway through deciding whether he should run now and break the cuffs later when a loud bang, and subsequent shout, sound out just outside of the barn.

Sam’s heartrate picks up substantially. He quickly scans the room for a hiding place while twisting the chain on his cuffs in order to break it, but he takes too long to make a decision. No sooner does Sam start to move, Sergei and Ken come sprinting into the barn from opposing ends. Then, two things happen near simultaneously. Sergei is shot in the shoulder and Ken grabs Sam by the neck.

Sam barely has time to process what the fuck is going on when Bucky steps into full view and shoots Sergei point blank before he can get back up. Sam wants to be mortified, really, but all he feels is a rushing wave of relief because Bucky is _here_.

That doesn’t last though. The floating feeling of safety is quickly replaced with dread when Sam remembers that Alex is still lurking around somewhere. Sam has faith in Bucky’s abilities to kill two men on his own, sure, but that’s only if Bucky _knows_ there are two henchmen. This was all part of Ken’s plan, anyway. To lure Bucky into their run-down nest and neutralize any roadblocks that should arise during the process. One of which happens to be Sam.

“Put the gun down, James,” Ken says, like a disappointed father. He’s out of breath though, and every one he lets out falls right onto Sam’s ear. It’s a disgusting feeling, and an even more disgusting smell.

When Bucky doesn’t comply Ken tightens his chokehold on Sam. Sam’s immediate reaction is to retaliate with a swift elbow to the man’s ribs, but BVK presses his free hand into one of the various wounds in Sam’s side to incapacitate him. A helpless sound gurgles past his lips and Sam’s vision whites out at the edges. He doesn’t have the energy to expend like this, not for standing _or_ being difficult.

Sam hears more than he sees Bucky’s angry response, which comes out in the form of very livid sounding Russian. Obviously Sam doesn’t understand it, but Ken does and whatever Bucky said makes the man tighten his grip even further and reach for his knife with his free hand. BVK presses it to Sam’s jugular without hesitation, a crystal clear threat.

There’s just enough pressure between the knife and Sam’s throat to draw blood – just enough to make Bucky go wide eyed for a split fraction of a second. Ken must be smiling, because Sam can hear it in the man’s voice when he says, “You always did think you were the one in charge. But you weren’t, and you never will be.”

Sam groans. “Man, will you shut the fuck up already?”

He’s treated to the more insistent press of Ken’s knife to his neck and a harsh whisper in his ear. “You’d do well to stay out of this.”

“Kinda in the middle of it,” Sam mutters, mostly to himself. It’s amazing how much energy he can muster up to be indignant even with a knife pressed to his neck.

Bucky lifts his gun from where it was pointed at Sergei’s lifeless body and trains his gun on BVK, effectively cutting into the mini argument brewing between him and Sam. “I was never foolish enough to think I was in charge of my body back then. But it’s mine now.” He takes a bold step forward eliciting a step backward from BVK.

“If you come any closer I might have to kill your little friend here.”

 _Little?_ Sam rolls his eyes, but he keeps his mouth shut in favor of getting a hold on the situation.

He managed to get the chains on his cuffs twisted around each other enough before shit hit the fan. Sam _could_ break it, but that would take more space than he has right now and it would probably draw BVK’s attention. However, he won’t need to do any of that if Bucky figures out a way to save his ass.

Bucky’s face has since lost the twinge of concern from a few moments ago. Even the frenzied anger is gone. Now his face is blank, impassive, and his jaw is set in a tense line. Almost as if a switch has been flipped. “I think you and I both know what’ll happen if you kill him. And I’ll make sure you stay alive so you can feel **_every_** _thing_.” Bucky takes a slow step forward then and when he speaks again his voice is low, demanding of attention. “Let. Him. _Go_.”

Sam can almost feel the moment of hesitation of the knife against his neck. The slight jump-skip of Ken’s breathing. Sam looks back at Bucky and they lock eyes for a moment; he decides he wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of such a look either. The Winter Soldier’s dead eyed stare. But Sam quickly scraps that thought when he remembers the steady look of determination that always tinted James’ face in those old museum archive photos – from Bucky’s Howling Commando days. This is James Buchanan Barnes Sam’s looking at, not the Winter Soldier. Both are highly skilled killers, but only one is as fiercely protective and loyal as what Sam is faced with right now.

Just when Sam thinks the situation has deescalated, Ken takes his knife from where it was against Sam’s neck and stabs it into his lower abdomen. Sam lets out a pained yelp and crumples forward, but before he can truly fall to his knees BVK drags him right back up. “This is not a negotiation!”

 “Really?” Bucky says, tilting his head to the side in a manner that is _far_ too nonchalant for a hostage situation. “Because to me it looks like you’re about to trade your life for his.”

Sam hisses in pain and silently prays to the gods that Bucky doesn’t inadvertently get him killed. Granted, it’s not Bucky’s fault BVK is out of his mind on some Hydra high, but there is some level of tact required here. Especially when knives are involved.

As if to prove Sam’s point, BVK raises his hand again, ready to sink his knife into Sam’s body. But, before Sam can so much as wince or think to block him, the deafening bang of a gun at close range sounds off in the space between them and Bucky.

Sam’s ears ring at high frequency and when he opens his eyes BVK’s knife is on the floor. The ringing chatter turns into a low drawn out note and Sam turns to the side only to find a smattering of blood on his right shoulder and its source – the gaping wound in Ken’s wrist. It’s not quite a hole, but it isn’t a grazing injury either. Sam is stunned to the point of inaction for a few seconds, staring in sick fascination. He has at least ten fleeting thoughts about sharp shooter Barnes before he takes the opportunity for what it is and jams his foot down over BVK’s.

The man pulls back, furthering the space between he and Sam, but Sam makes it right back up by driving his elbow into the BVK’s solar plexus. However, that’s all Sam has time for. His next move was to kick this no good, imitation Ken doll right in the family jewels, but Bucky appears at Sam’s side and grabs Ken by his tousled blond hair, _hard_.

“Sam. Go outside.”

He’s about to argue against leaving Bucky’s side when he catches Bucky’s metal hand closing around Ken’s throat. Now the script is flipped. Sam is speechless because, while he would die for Bucky, Bucky is about to kill for him. But Ken is speechless because of the crushing weight of metal surrounding his vocal chords.

Sam must hesitate a little longer than Bucky appreciates because he’s met with an unrestrained glare. “Outside. **Now**. If you’re worried about the other one, he’s dead.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. In all honesty, he’d forgotten about Alexander for a moment. He was more worried about the gash in his side. It’s a little bit hard to move when you’ve been stabbed a few times, but Sam doesn’t mention it. Mostly because he knows _why_ Bucky doesn’t want him to see this. He’s only halfway to the exit when he hears the muffled screams. He doesn’t look back though, and he certainly doesn’t look down at Sergei’s limp body when he steps over it.

Passing through the threshold of the barn and into the outside world, Sam is greeted with even more disaster. There’s a dent in one of the metal side panels of the barn that’s distinctly human sized, but there’s no body beneath it. Sam scans the area quickly and then heads for the bullet riddled car, looking for the missing body. Whether all of this is to curb his concern or his curiosity, Sam’s not sure.

 The air outside is thick and warm, and every smell carries far too well. It stinks – _bad_. Between the blood, manure, and everything else going on, Sam can hardly be faulted for gagging. He steadies himself on the side of the car and opens the door. He’s just sitting down when he hears one, two – eight shots fired in the barn.

What’s really startling isn’t the sound of the gunshots, it’s the sight of Bucky trudging out of the front entrance with his face covered in a spray of blood. Sam half expects that to be it, but then Bucky rounds the side of the barn only to come back around again with a body. A severely mangled one at that.

 _There’s Alex,_ Sam thinks, oddly neutral. _How much did I sleep through?_

He doesn’t waste time trying to figure it out, and at this point he’s pretty sure he couldn’t even if he tried. Aside from the fact that Sam’s mind is going a thousand miles a minute, that all-encompassing migraine hasn’t exactly gone away. Sam’s just lucky it’s overcast and later in the day otherwise he would truly be hurting. He still has to squint to read the papers in the glove compartment though. The whole situation has taken a toll on his ability to concentrate.

All it takes is the long drag and pull of a barn door to tear Sam’s attention from the middle of a sentence he was reading about Hertz’s car rental policies. “What the –”

There’s a click, spark, and then flames as far as the eye can see. Sam has to turn away for more reasons than one, but he settles for blaming it on the sharp ache radiating through his skull every time he so much as blinks. Not because the flames make the burns on his sides start to itch again. Sam even goes as far to turn his body away slightly and then continues digging through the glove compartment for anything even remotely useful until Bucky appears at his side.

There’s a lengthy moment of silence where Sam doesn’t look up. He’s not sure he’ll like what he sees. The smattering of blood covering Bucky was jarring enough from far away.

“I need you to get out of the car,” Bucky finally says.

“Why?”

“ _Sam._ ” It’s said with such frustrated urgency that Sam actually looks up then. Bucky’s face is worry worn, tired even. Finally, a show of weakness, though it’s gone in a flash.

“There could be others,” is all Bucky offers in return.

Sam pulls his hands from the glove box and rests them in his lap for a moment. He’s not trying to be difficult, he just doesn’t feel like moving so soon after having sat down. “Where are you parked?”

Bucky makes a face that Sam can only interpret as, _you won’t like the answer._ He slowly closes his eyes and counts to ten. “Bucky _…_ I swear to god if you tell me you’re about to set this car on fire when you walked here, I **_will_** kill you.”

“Just get up. I’m parked down the road. I couldn’t exactly drive up like the pizza delivery boy, Jesus.”

“The least you could do is say _please_ ,” Sam grumbles.

“Please,” Bucky says, exasperated. He lets out a tired sigh and holds a hand out for Sam to take, but Sam flinches as soon as he does.

The look on Bucky’s face at that is enough to make Sam grab the extended line before he misses the chance. “Thank you.”

It doesn’t wash away the pained look, but it does take some of the tension out of Bucky’s shoulders. “I’ll try to make it quick.”

Everything is a little blurry in the afternoon warmth of the Iowan countryside. The amount of time Sam loses as he waits for Bucky to destroy every trace of their having been there should probably be concerning, but Sam can’t bring himself to care. He feels hollowed out now that he’s safe. Like all of his energy is being used to consume the barn behind him in a red blanket of flames. All Sam knows with any certainty right now is that the sky is blue. But even that gets washed out by grey ash.

One moment the smoke from the barn fire and the car intermingle, turning everything in the air black, and the next Bucky is coaxing Sam up from the ground. “C’mon. We need to go.”

Sam holds out his hand to be pulled up. “You don’t need to tell me twice Barnes, you just have to help me.”

Apparently Bucky takes that to mean Sam wanted to be _picked_ up, because he pulls Sam up and then swoops his feet out from under him. “Not a word,” he says as Sam opens his mouth. “It’s faster this way and you’re hurt.”

“I’m not some damsel in distress.” He squirms in Bucky’s arm looking for a more comfortable position, but there’s none to be found. “Damn it, Bucky, put me _down._ You’re hurting me.”

Bucky freezes and lowers Sam slowly. “I –”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Sam says before Bucky can apologize. “I’ve been curled up in weird positions for days and being carried isn’t exactly doing anything for these.” He gestures at the fresh stab wounds that are almost parallel on each side of his stomach. One is singed around the edges from where the taser was pressed. Sam hopes Bucky isn’t looking at that one. Or any of the other marks for that matter.

His discomfort must be a lot more evident than he thought because Bucky takes his over shirt off and wordlessly drapes it around Sam’s shoulders. Still, Sam doesn’t miss the way his eyes linger on a few of the marks. “How quickly can you walk?”

“I’ll make it work,” Sam replies evenly, answering around the question.

Bucky nods wordlessly and then gestures toward Sam’s hands. “Here, let me.”

Sam looks down at the cuffs. Their weight has been so constant he almost forgot about them. It takes him a moment to snap out of it, but when he does he holds his hands out. Bucky takes each of them, holding them softly. One of his thumbs skirts over Sam’s knuckles and then they’re gone. Bucky snaps the metal chain like it’s a dry piece of pasta and tosses bits of it to the side.

“I’ll break the rest of it off when we get home. Let’s get going.”

 _Home_. Not the safe house or their secret fortress; home. Bucky says it like it’s really that easy, like Sam wasn’t just held prisoner for – for _however_ long because Sam doesn’t even know. For a second Sam is almost fooled into thinking Bucky picked him up from that grocery run and not what is now a pile of ashes in the making.

Sam lets out a short, unamused breath. “Yeah. Home.”


	2. Recovery (The six stages of grief)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay first of all, I'm sorry this took so long. Second, I'm not sure how I feel... this was interesting to write so I hope you guys like it.
> 
> Anywho, I wrote this as a thank you to you guys for getting me to 4,000 kudos. But, would you believe it, I took so long I hit 4,400 kudos. SO THANK YOU! You guys are the best and absolutely so so sweet.
> 
> This was unbeta'd. Any and all mistakes are mine, so please feel free to point 'em out.  
> And leave comments if you want to. There's no such thing as a comment I won't appreciate and I love hearing what you guys like and what you thought!

**Stage One: Hitting rock bottom. Denial.**

Sam doesn’t talk on the way back to the house. He doesn’t mention that the song on the radio annoys him, no matter how softly it’s being played. Doesn’t say anything when they pass through three separate counties. Sam catches Bucky’s concerned glances whenever their eyes meet in the rearview mirror, which is how he knows it must be bad. But, drumming up extra energy to spend on putting on a brave face just isn’t possible for Sam right now. Every corner of his mind is consumed by how exhausted he is, and any nook or cranny that has escaped notice is filled with an all too painful fear that all of this is a dream.

Who sleeps through gunfire? How did Bucky even _find_ him? Is Sam so disoriented that he’s starting to hallucinate? Maybe he’s still knocked out… maybe someone drugged him.

He’s still completely silent when they make it back to the house. As soon as Bucky parks Sam drags himself out of the car and up the two steps to get to their door. It’s only as he reaches into his pants pocket that he realizes he doesn’t have his keys. He doesn’t have any of his things. No shirt, no I.D., and very little dignity.

“Here,” Bucky says, handing Sam the key. He’s not quite sure why Bucky doesn’t just unlock it himself. That would make more sense. Still, Sam takes the keys and shoves them into lock. He doesn’t bother taking them out once the door is open. Just keeps walking and leaves Bucky there to retrieve them.

Sam doesn’t stop until he makes it to the bathroom. This is probably exactly what he should be avoiding, right? Looking at himself. It’s magnetizing though. As soon as he pulls the shirt from his back the slant of the cut on his throat, half fresh, catches his attention. Then the tallies that creep from just beneath his neck down to the meat of his pectoral. Every single mark brings to life a memory as vivid and deep as the blood that welled up from them. Every single one of them throbbing in time, begging for Sam’s attention.

Sam doesn’t even realize how laborious it’s become to breathe until Bucky rushes in the door and pulls him away from the mirror.

“Shh, I got you. I’m here,” Bucky says quietly as he wraps his arms around Sam. But Sam isn’t saying anything, is he? Maybe he is – he can’t hear over the rushing sound of blood running through his ears.

The two of them sink onto the floor as Sam struggles through what’s probably an anxiety attack. Bucky, startled and unsure, and Sam with his hands buried in the fabric of Bucky’s shirt, clinging for dear life. It takes Sam a while to even notice that Bucky is counting for him. Up and down, in and out, until Sam relearns how to breathe like the living. But all Sam can bring himself to do is hold on to Bucky.

He smells good – well, familiar at least. Bucky smells like the metal tang of foreign blood and a little bitter from the fight, but he also smells like he used the good shampoo Sam bought. A hint of mint and rosemary. Sam buries his face in Bucky’s neck and inhales, long and drawn out, steadying himself.

Bucky can’t seem to make a decision about whether or not to touch Sam, so his hands skirt around from place to place for a while before settling on Sam’s shoulders. No sooner than they do though Sam pulls himself up and walks into the bathroom again to clean himself, needing distance. Bucky stops him before he can start, taking the first aid kit from Sam’s hands to set on the counter. Their eyes meet then, brown and blue mixing together like land and ocean, and they come to some sort of agreement that ends in Sam relenting and allowing Bucky to help.

Bucky grabs a hand towel, some dark hue Sam can’t quite make out, and drenches it in warm water before wringing most of it out. He falters before he touches, his eyes flitting from place to place. “What did they do to you?” he mutters under his breath. It’s painfully obvious Bucky doesn’t know where to start with the way his hands are hovering in the air – like he’s asking the gods for forgiveness instead of pausing before making a decision.

Sam takes in a deep breath and closes his eyes. He squeezes them tight when the images flaring to life behind his eyelids refuse to subside. “Oh, you know, just the royal treatment.”

Bucky lets out a quick breath. “No kidding.”

Sam’s so far in his head puzzling through the bits and pieces rattling around up there that he doesn’t notice Bucky’s hand lingering over his left pectoral, sans towel. When Sam finally snaps back to reality and open his eyes he flinches backward, grabbing Bucky’s wrist before he can touch.

Sam isn’t sure why he reacts so strongly, or why all he can muster up is a soft, “Don’t.”

Bucky’s hand flexes within Sam’s grasp, not in defiance but surprise. His eyes go wide with concern, frayed around the edges by a knowing sadness. But then the realization kicks in, souring the look into something narrowed and furious. “Are those – _tallies_?”

When Sam looks away, Bucky lets out a frustrated sigh. “Sam. _Sam._ I – please talk to me. You haven’t said a word the past three hours since we got back.”

 _Has it really been that long_? Sam wonders. _Felt like twenty minutes._ He shakes his head slightly, clearing away the fog. “What exactly would me telling you what these are, do?”

Sam doesn’t want to talk about his liar tallies, or any of this, at all; let alone with the person he endured them for. It’s not important anymore, it’s said and done, and it would only upset Bucky. That’s the last thing Sam needs to deal with right now on top of whatever the fuck is going on with his head.

“The people who did it are dead anyway,” Sam says, his voice devoid of emotion. “It’s fine.”

He turns to move but Bucky presses his metal hand over the litany of burns along the right side of Sam’s ribs, keeping him in place. Sam can’t help but sigh into the touch, the itchy ache momentarily soothed by the cool metal, but he can’t quite meet Bucky’s insistent gaze either.

“I just want –” Bucky lets out a short breath, one that hitches in the middle. “I’m sorry.”

Sam does look then. “Sorry? What on god’s green earth are you –?”

“I know it was because of me,” Bucky says, interrupting. “It had to be, right?”

Sam takes in as long a breath as he can manage. This is exactly what he was trying to avoid. He presses a hand over the tallies and ignores the way his heart aches as he lies and says, “This wasn’t because of you.”

And it _wasn’t_ Bucky’s fault. Wasn’t his doing. _Sam_ is the one who decided to play hard to get.

 _But it was **for** Bucky_ , his mind supplies unnecessarily.

“You don’t have to lie to spare my feelings, Sammy,” Bucky says softly, his words slicing their way right through Sam’s impassive demeanor. His tone alone makes Sam want to spill everything he’s bottling up right now. But he can’t. Not today. He needs time to decompress and compartmentalize. Time to think.

He’s just about to tell Bucky to drop it when a hand rests against his cheek, feather-light but startling him all the same. “Please,” Bucky says again, quieter. His sad grey eyes waver between Sam’s. “You don’t – I won’t ask about the marks again. But at least tell me if those guys kidnapped you because of me.”

And that’s it. This is all too much right now and Sam’s on an emotional overload, so he snaps. “So you can, what, bring those guys back to life only to kill them again?”

“ _No._ No, I –” Bucky drops his hand from Sam’s cheek like he’s been burned. “I want to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

Sam sighs and looks away. Has half the mind to scream. “I didn’t mean it like that. I – I’m sorry.” He scrubs a hand down his face and tries not to tear up, feeling as high strung as he does. “Can we talk about this later? Or not at all… I’m tired, and thirsty, and I just want to lay down.”

“Yeah,” Bucky replies evenly. Too much so – detached almost. “Of course.”

There’s some residual tension after that, but eventually Bucky picks the hand towel back up and begins wiping away the dried blood on Sam’s body, oddly delicate despite his stature and silky black bionic arm.

Their minds are practically intertwined in that moment – Bucky flinching whenever Sam does. Their emotions tangled up in the cloying fog of Hydra’s ways. It’d be painful to watch from the outside, but for Sam it’s just… another day.

Bucky stitches Sam up where it’s required, and he apologizes after every knot is tied. As if his words aren’t enough, Bucky even runs Sam a bath – while Sam’s off drinking some tea – and he seems less tense when he says he’s done so. Like a peace offering, like he’s finally done something right.  But as soon as Sam tells him to drain it and _no thanks_ , Bucky’s whole demeanor changes.

He knows. Sam knows that he knows.

Bucky doesn’t say anything though. Not that he has to, the tension in his jaw speaks volumes. As does the hole Sam finds in one of the doors later on. Neither of them mention that either.

**Stage Two: Pain and guilt.**

**_WAKE UP!_ **

Sam snaps to attention sweaty and in pain. He lets out a shuddering breath and instinctively reaches for the knife beneath his pillow, guided by the dim table lamp he left on so he could even _think_ about sleeping. There’s someone lingering outside his room; he can feel it. Can hear it.

He’s not gonna let them take him. Not again.

As soon as the door opens he tosses the knife and jumps from his bed, ready to grab the gun underneath the drawer of his bedside table. But, then the main light turns on and all Sam sees is Bucky. And the knife lodged in the door frame mere inches from his head…

“I didn’t know you could throw knives,” Bucky says casually, as if Sam didn’t almost take his eye out.

Sam swallows past the dry patch in his throat and shrugs, aiming for the same level of indifference. “Party trick.”

He loosens his posture before letting out a quick breath. Nightmare must’ve woken him up. The fear from it still hangs close overhead, makes Sam’s skin prickle when the air conditioner kicks in.

“Some party trick,” Bucky say offhandedly as he steps into the room.

Sam’s brows fall into a line across his head as he considers the clock beside his bed. Then Bucky.   “Were you – were you waiting outside of my room?”

Bucky looks up from where Sam’s hand is still hovering by the night stand. He shrugs. “Yeah.”

“You get any sleep?”

Bucky’s mouth thins into a pensive line before he says, “No, but that’s not important. Or unusual.”

“Kind of important,” Sam argues as he withdraws his hand from the bedside table’s space. He’s safe. Ish. “You look like shit.”

“That’ll happen when you haven’t slept more than six hours in a week.” Bucky’s dry look fades into something a little more flippant. “How ‘bout you?”

Sam frowns and then looks back at his bed with a bit of longing. “S’hard. I didn’t get much sleep while I was – out… And now I kind of can’t. It’s almost like my bed is too comfortable. Feels fake.”

Bucky nods once, short and sharp in movement. This is something he understands, obviously. He always seems to understand. “The couch is free,” he offers. “Think _the Goonies_ is on.” He looks away after that, keeping his head to the side.

Sam remembers he’s shirtless then. He considers pulling one on, but hates the idea of cotton dragging against his scabs and fresh cut skin. He settles for pulling on Bucky’s dirtied plaid again, reminds himself he needs more button ups. “You gonna watch?”

Bucky gives a one shouldered shrug and looks back, but he pauses. His eyes skirt over Sam’s shoulders and down his torso, and this time when he looks away he almost seems – hesitant. “I can, if you want.”

Sam lets out an amused huff. “Not what I asked.” He walks to the door and pulls the knife out of the frame. “There goes the deposit.”

“Think we lost that right around the time the place got smoke damage from your weird casserole.”

Sam grimaces at the thought. “Yeah, that was – not good.”

Bucky smirks and nudges Sam’s shoulder with his own. “C’mon. I’ll make you some more tea.”

“We have any mint left?” Sam asks as he tries not to overthink how helpful Bucky is being right now.

“Nah. Unless you’re okay with the peppermint.”

Sam makes a face which Bucky correctly interprets to mean _hell no_ , so he says, “Honey vanilla chamomile it is.”

Sam won’t ask how Bucky knew that was his second choice as he puts the knife back underneath his pillow. He also won’t ask Bucky if he picked the mug in his hands because it’s Sam’s favorite. Instead he’s going to sit down on the couch and watch Chunk do the truffle shuffle and he’ll wordlessly accept the tea he’s handed that’s sweetened to perfection.

Bucky changes the channel for Sam when Chunk is held captive and threatened with a blender. Sam likes to think his mind is sound enough to handle a scene like that, one riddled with jokes despite the situation, but today is chock-full of newfound irritants. Even the off-beat drip of the faucet in the kitchen proves to be too much.

Eventually Bucky switches couches to sit by Sam, slowly inching his way over during every commercial break of their new choice of show, Meerkat Manor. It’s kind of funny the way he does it so slowly, like he thinks he’s being subtle. He’s really not. Maybe it would’ve been before, but Sam is hyperaware of every little sound and movement in his immediate vicinity now. It’s tiring, to say the least.

Once Bucky is within half an arm’s length Sam sleepily closes his eyes and rests his head on Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky smells like pine needles now, the muted scent of his body wash. The warmth of his body seeps right through his shirt as if it were nothing more than a scrap of paper. It’s enough that Sam relaxes marginally, doesn’t even startle when Bucky wraps his arm around his waist.

Sam didn’t want to ask Bucky if he would – well, Sam’s not sure how to put it without it sounding odd, but cuddle seems like the right word if you _really_ want to get into it.

Bucky’s touch had been grounding earlier when Sam got lost in his head and unknowingly broke down. But, Sam also needed space. It’s an odd war that is constantly shifting in favor. Right now though? Sam needs something to hold on to. Something real. So he lets out a deep breath and keeps his head on Bucky’s shoulder.

Soon enough Bucky’s free hand finds its way into Sam’s grasp and the two sit silently until the credits roll around. Sam can feel the way Bucky shifts to look down then, the brush of wispy hair over his own near bare head. Bucky’s unspoken _what now?_ Sam is enjoying the quiet though. The ease of sitting here on the couch with Bucky, no pointed remarks or invasive questions. Just mindless comfort.

But silence never lasts. Especially not if the voice in the back of Sam’s mind is to be trusted.

Sam doesn’t look up to meet Bucky’s gaze when he finally decides to speak, but he does shift his eyes from where they were trained on the red blinking light at the base of the TV screen. “Did you tell Steve?”

Bucky doesn’t miss a beat. “Yes.”

Sam lets out a long and low breath. He was hoping Bucky hadn’t mentioned it – how Sam was stupid enough to get himself kidnapped in the middle of packing _groceries_ into his car. Granted, the marks on his body would’ve been pretty hard to hide, but Sam still wanted to maintain some air of normalcy. Like if Steve didn’t know and thought everything was okay then everything _would_ be.

Now it’ll probably be awkward. Steve can be… not overbearing, but incredibly protective of those he cares for. And while the intentions are pure (so very, _very_ pure), sometimes it leaves Sam feeling a little suffocated.

“He’s not going to be back for another week or two,” Bucky says softly, as if having read Sam’s mind. But maybe he doesn’t have to. After all, Bucky has been the main recipient of Steve’s protection and hard earned love for decades, even in sleep.

Sam lets out a short huff. “What’d he say?”

“Said if I couldn’t find you in a week to try and contact him again – that he’d find a way to get back to help.” Bucky shifts so that he can look into Sam’s eyes. “He might’ve sent Nat.”

Sam nods. Nat he can deal with. Natasha is simple in that she doesn’t let her complexities show. She cares, but she’s not outwardly affectionate, and she sure as hell won’t press you to do or say anything when her spare time could be better put to use elsewhere.

“How long was I gone?” Sam asks. It sounds like Steve isn’t coming back until he’s finished, which means it has to have been under a week. Sam lost track around day four.

Bucky looks away then, and his body goes tense. When he speaks he sounds like he’s disgusted with himself. “Six days.”

Sam rubs some of the weariness from beneath his eyes and sighs. The guilt in Bucky’s voice is unwarranted – misplaced even. Sam didn’t even want Bucky to come find him. Sure, part of him was dying to be rescued, but Sam prayed for it to be anyone but Bucky. Sam was so afraid that BVK and his goons would find a way to manipulate Bucky into being theirs again. That they’d use something good in Bucky’s life against him and send him spiraling into a pit of self-loathing.

But now all Sam can think about is how little evidence Bucky must’ve had to go on. How hard it must’ve been to follow what was surely a very sparse trail of breadcrumbs. All Sam left behind was a cart full of groceries and the shitty used car he bought off some older woman.

It makes Sam all the more grateful, which is why he says, “But you found me.”

Bucky shrugs, like that’s not good enough. “Could’ve spared you some pain if I hadn’t gone into a fugue state for – _god_ – a day. I lost so much time. I could’ve lost _you_.”

Sam frowns. He’s hoping his disappearance wasn’t the reason for Bucky’s relapse, of sorts. It’s been a while since he’s zoned out and lost a huge chunk of time. Months. Sam supposes he understands what that’s like a little better now.

“You’re allowed to have moments, Barnes. Even when the timing is off or inconvenient. It happens.” When all Bucky does is roll his eyes Sam pushes him. “Hey. I’m fine, okay?”

“You’re not fine, Sam. Have you seen–”

“You _know_ what I meant,” Sam says, butting back in. He doesn’t want to argue about this right now. “It could have been a lot worse than it was, but it _wasn’t_. You saved me, I’m alive, and that’s that.”

Bucky frowns, but he obviously knows better than to challenge Sam right now. After a moment he nods. “Okay.”

“Good.”

Bucky looks down and lets out a breathy sigh. “You should let me check on your stitches before you head back to bed.”

Sam unthinkingly tugs the opened button up over his chest to hide himself away. “They’re fine.”

Bucky looks back at the TV, his hand tightening around Sam’s in the process. Again, he lets it go. “Gonna sleep out here, then?”

Sam’s lips curve upward in a humorless smile. “Sit, yes. Sleep, probably not.”

Bucky nods again, wordless for a moment, but there’s obviously something he wants to say. When a minute passes without a word, Sam elbows him gently and says, “Why, were you gonna sleep out here?” by way of flat out asking Bucky what he wants to say.

“No,” Bucky answers. “I – do you want me to stay here? With you…”

…

It takes Sam a moment to process the offer, and when he does he’s not sure how he wants to reply. Part of him says no, he wants to be alone, needs some quiet. But the other part of him says please **_so_** emphatically that it drowns out the other. That doesn’t mean Sam is going to say anything though.

Sam takes his hand from Bucky’s and straightens himself out, sitting upright. “I don’t expect you to stay up with me all night.”

“Who said I was staying up?” Bucky replies, effectively cutting through the tension that was building in the air. He stands and motions behind himself with a nod of his head. “I’m grabbing a pillow. Do you want yours?”

And just like that, it’s settled. Bucky retrieves his pillows, Sam’s pillows, and a mountain of blankets. By the time Bucky is finished arranging everything, Sam is hidden in layers of blankets with his back pressed against Bucky’s chest. It’s effortless on Bucky’s part, like this was the obvious solution, but Sam is a little surprised.  He squirms at first, unsure of whether or not this is what he wanted, but eventually he comes around.

Bucky’s arms wrap around Sam’s middle, drawing him near. The weight of the blankets is surprisingly calming. Sam was expecting to feel suffocated, but it’s nice. And so is having his back pressed against something. It’s one less thing for him to watch obsessively. Sam even knows he’s safe with Bucky despite all of the anxiety settling in the pit of his stomach – that Bucky would probably kill for him again if there were ever a need – so Sam releases the breath he was holding and allows himself to close his eyes.

**Stage Three: Avoidance.**

“How are you?” Bucky asks over a cup of coffee a week later.

Steve and Natasha haven’t made their way back yet, but they _have_ made contact to let both Sam and Bucky know that they’re doing fine. Just a little bit busier than they expected they would be, unfortunately.

Sam’s glad they’re not here. Dealing with one person is enough right now. Not that Sam is _dealing_ with Bucky, but still, one person is definitely enough.

He looks up from where he was reading about a mysterious wildfire that ripped through two abandoned cornfields and a barn a few towns over. “I’m here,” Sam says. He’s not really anything – except tired. He’s definitely tired.

Bucky’s lips curl downward slightly. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Nope.” Sam looks back down at the paper and turns to the comics.

“I know that I’m one to talk, but it’s not… good to keep it bottled up.”

Sam lifts an eyebrow and sets his newspaper down. “You’re right. S’a little hypocritical.”

Bucky’s hands flex and curl into fists as he looks away. “Fine. If I talk, will you?”

Sam’s other eyebrow climbs into place next to the first. Bucky has been good about letting it go. He’s let Sam sit quietly for hours at a time, staring out of the bay windows near the back of the house. Hasn’t said anything about how Sam has been a little bit more prone to anger, or how Sam wakes up in the middle of the night screaming (more often than usual). So, why is he now?

“I’d rather not.”

Bucky stands abruptly then. “ _You_ –” he stops and lets out a flustered huff, thinking better of whatever was on the other side of that ‘you,’ and then says, “I’m gonna go for a run.”

And _that_ sends a frisson of panic up Sam’s spine. He hasn’t been left alone since he’s been back. He craves distance and space, but not _that_ much. He doesn’t want to be alone. Again, Sam doesn’t realize he’s done anything wrong until Bucky’s got both his hands on either side of his face asking Sam to come back to him.

“This is what I mean,” Bucky whispers harshly. “Just – let me help, _please_. I know it’s hard but – but…” He trails off and doesn’t pick back up, but Sam is too busy looking at where his own hands are curled into the fabric of Bucky’s shirt to notice.

All Sam _can_ do is say, “Hold on,” and, “Not yet.”

“I won’t.”

Bucky’s eyes track over Sam’s face, heavy and sad. He moves his hands from Sam’s cheeks and readjusts until they’re hugging. Well, it’s got the basics of what a hug technically is, but Sam just feels clingy and a little stupid. Especially with his face pressed against Bucky’s chest like a child. The amount of times he’s ended up like this in the past week are almost dizzying for him to count.

Sam knows that talking would probably help dispel some of the tension he’s been wearing like an ill-fitted button-up – ready to burst at the seams. And part of him _does_ want to talk about it, especially because Bucky would probably understand. But that’s the problem – _Bucky would understand_. The thought of sharing everything that happened only to trigger some awful memory in Bucky… Sam would rather be the lonely man on the island than drag someone there with him.

Bucky cups his hand over the back of Sam’s neck and squeezes lightly. His voice is soft when he says, “It doesn’t have to be what they did to you. Just – at least how you’re feeling right now. _Something_.”

Sam lets out a short and dry laugh. “When did you become camp counselor?”

“Been hangin’ around you too much.” Bucky smooths his metal hand over Sam’s back, and it’s calming despite the fact that Sam is literally being pet. “C’mon, we can sit on the couch.”

“No it’s – here is fine.”

Bucky leans back enough to look down at Sam. “You sure?”

Sam nods. If he leaves the room he’ll leave the moment and run.

“Want me to let you go now?”

Sam’s fingers tense where they are on the small of Bucky’s back and then fall away of their own accord – although reluctantly. “Yeah, I’m good now. Just had a moment.”

Bucky nods, unfortunately knowing all too well what kind of moment that was. “Tea?”

Sam shakes his head. “I need coffee for this.” Bucky moves to start a new pot of coffee but Sam puts a hand up. “Sit down, I can get it. You’ve been doing too much.”

“Have not,” Bucky says, his face twisting in confusion.

Sam ignores it and waves him off again. He needs to do something with his hands if he’s going to talk about anything concerning himself right now. He reaches into the cabinet, wincing when the movement pulls at his stitches, and grabs the coffee grounds. The smell alone settles something in him. Sam doesn’t even really like coffee that much, but the aroma is comforting and familiar.

After he sticks a filter into the tray, Sam digs a spoon into the pile of grounds and slowly transfers a scoop. Two tablespoons in, he says, “I’ve never been kidnapped before. Don’t recommend it.”

“Can’t imagine why not.”

Sam smirks and dumps another tablespoon in, taking his sweet time. “I was in the middle of putting groceries in my car.”

“I know,” Bucky answers. His voice sounds – haunted almost.

Pausing, Sam turns his head to the side. “How do you – did someone see me get taken?”

A muscle in Bucky’s jaw tenses. “No. No they didn’t…” He looks off to the side. “There was a video; I got it from the store.”

“Got how?” Sam asks.

“Not important.”

Sam turns around then. “That kind of sounds like you–”

“We’re not talking about me right now, Sam,” Bucky interjects calmly. “If you want me to tell you later, I will.”

Frowning, Sam turns back around. He sets one hand on the counter to brace himself and taps his forefinger. “So, you saw.”

“Not all of it, but enough.” Bucky’s voice is laced with an anger that’s almost tangible. Sam’s sure that if he turns around he’ll find Bucky’s metal hand closed into a tight ball.

“Then you know that I was put in the trunk.”

“Yes.”

“Yeah…”

Sam finishes scooping coffee grounds into the filter and closes the lid of the machine. He pours water into the back, enough for eight cups, and then presses the start button. “I’m tired.”

Bucky stands and places something of his in the sink, resting against the counter once that’s done. “I know. But you can rest now.”

“Can I?” Sam wonders as he turns around. He shakes his head and lets out a humorless laugh. “It wasn’t even that bad and still I can’t – I can’t sleep, I can’t _think_. I –”

“Wasn’t that bad?” Bucky repeats in disbelief. “I shouldn’t have to list off all the marks I can see on your body right now to explain why that’s complete bullshit.”

“It was four days.”

“ _Six_ ,” Bucky corrects. He closes his eyes and lets out a sigh. “I’m not going to argue with you about how you feel, but – it’s not surprising that you can’t sleep.”

Sam rakes his teeth across his bottom lip. “I slept when I left Afghanistan. Slept a lot.” He rubs a hand over his face and frowns when he realizes he’s let his goatee get out of hand. “Days blended together. I – it should be easier.” _Easier than when I lost Riley._

“ _Sam_ ,” Bucky whispers, pleads almost. Whatever his initial thought is, he hesitates, and Sam is sure that what comes out isn’t what Bucky was _really_ going to say. “It’s only been a week. You of all people should know it takes time.”

Sam lets out a frustrated laugh. “I don’t _have_ the time Bucky. I don’t have the luxury. There are things I have to do; people we have to – I can’t be freaking out like this over some stupid –”

“Hey.” Bucky brings himself to stand in front of Sam. His face is tense, but his voice is calm and low. “Stop.”

“What are you –?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Stop, just for five seconds.”

Sam levels him with a look and lets out a heavy sigh. “What happened to talking about it?”

“Time out,” Bucky says, surprisingly sage for someone who needs to take his own advice. “What happened to you wasn’t stupid.”

“ _Bucky_ –”

“ **Stop** ,” he says again. “One of the first things you told me before I went into cryo was that I needed to validate myself. That starting there would make it easier to believe the things people around me said.”

Sam clenches his jaw and looks away. He’s starting to regret that little talk.

“Your feelings are valid,” Bucky says slowly, like he doesn’t want to spook Sam. “I don’t care if you’re frustrated – yell at me, do whatever you need – but don’t say that what happened wasn’t bad enough to warrant what you’re feeling.”

Rolling his eyes, Sam says, “Compared to you, it _wasn’t_ –”

“There’s your first mistake,” Bucky cuts in again. “You’re not _me_. You’re you, and your experiences can’t compare because we’re not the same person.”

When Sam stubbornly refuses to reply to that logic, Bucky continues. “Your worst experience is still a bad one even if my worst experience is somehow ‘greater.’ You know that; I know you do.” He lets out a short breath. “Alright. Time out’s over now.”

Sam blinks at Bucky, somewhat in disbelief. The coffee pot gurgles to a halt behind him and somewhere off in the distance a bird chirps. The world feels upside down, inside out, and backwards all at once. Sam’s not sure how much he likes being on the receiving end of his own advice. It’s… hard.

He looks away from Bucky’s obnoxiously knowing gaze and fiddles with the coffeemaker. Bucky lets him. “I was afraid I was gonna die there,” he finally says out loud.

Bucky’s response takes a while, but when he speaks he says, “Okay. That’s a start.” Sam turns his head over his shoulder and Bucky hazards a smile. “Now do you want to talk about that, or come back to it later?”

Sam’s eyes waver between Bucky’s. “Later.”

And just like before, Bucky makes it easy and moves past the subject as if it were never there in the first place. “Move over then. Your coffee always tastes better.”

**Stage Four: Reflection.**

Sam wakes up in Bucky’s bed, wrapped in his arms. This is the one thing Sam has let himself ask for; help sleeping.

It’s a bit odd though, sleeping with Bucky. If Sam told himself two years ago that the person who threw him off a helicarrier would end up being the person he felt safest with – ha, he would’ve laughed himself off the deep end.

There were nights back then Sam dreamed of falling to his death. A parallel to his old partner. He still has those dreams now, but what made it worse then was how Sam almost felt like he deserved it. He realizes how far off base those thoughts were (and are), but that doesn’t stop his brain from getting out of hand from time to time.

But where it _should_ be out of hand, it isn’t. Right now Sam feels as though he should be overthinking the fact that he’s never felt as comfortable as he does in Bucky’s arms right now. Or how he woke up an hour ago and fell right back asleep because he decided Bucky’s arms were where he wanted to spend the morning. He _never_ falls back asleep when he wakes up – it takes more energy than it’s worth.

It’s safe here in Bucky’s room in more ways than one. Mostly because Sam knows how lethal Bucky can be, and yet here Bucky is – just as unguarded as Sam. Which is to say, enough to fall asleep next to one another and nothing more.

Weird. That’s what it is. It’s weird and Sam doesn’t care.

They’ve been like this for days, and if Sam didn’t know any better he’d think he wasn’t the only one benefitting from this setup. Climbing into bed with one another after a long day watching each other’s backs in a house out in the middle of Nowhere, Iowa.

Sam lets his head fall back against the pillow and closes his eyes. If he moves too much Bucky will get up. He’s not so sure he wants that. Today is Thursday.

Somewhere along the line they decided Thursdays were the days where Sam would bring up one thing – something to get off his chest. Sure it’s _helpful_ , but just because it helps that doesn’t make it easy. And yeah, Sam has started sharing outside of Thursdays, but that doesn’t mean he enjoys it.

“Know you’re awake,” Bucky mumbles against Sam’s neck. He takes a deep breath and pulls Sam closer. Whether it’s intentional or reflexive is unknown to Sam. “Stop stalling.”

Sam frowns and tries not to roll his eyes. Somehow Bucky can tell even when he can’t see it happening. “M’not stalling,” Sam says back, voice equally sleep worn.

“Are too,” Bucky replies. “I know you hate Thursdays.”

“ _You_ made me hate Thursdays. I liked ‘em just fine before.”

He can feel the way Bucky smiles before he says, “ _Bullshit_. Everyone knows Thursdays only serve as a barrier to the weekend.”

Sam actually laughs at that. He blames it on the fact that he’s only half awake. “Okay, I liked Thursdays _slightly_ more before than I do now.”

The two of them fall into an unassuming silence, laying together even though they could easily get up and separate themselves for breakfast. Sam turns toward Bucky slightly, sobered by the thought of what he wants to say. He chickens out and skips over it to ask, “Do I _have_ to?”

Bucky lifts himself up to look down at Sam, and Sam simultaneously wants to be as far from this bed and as close to Bucky as possible in that moment. He envies how soft Bucky looks right now, just the right amount of haziness in his eyes from the long night of rest, his sleep-mussed hair, and _absolutely no obligation to share his **feelings**_.

“You’ve asked this twice already.”

“You’re bad at taking a hint then.”

Bucky smirks. “I don’t take hints. Kinda need you to be straightforward with me.”

Sam rolls over and pulls himself from bed, albeit reluctantly. “You want straightforward? Fine.” He sighs as he stretches his limbs and then drops his arms from where he was reaching for a way out of this. “Fine,” he repeats. “I hate this.”

“Thursdays, or something else?” Bucky asks as he shifts to sit at the edge of the bed.

“ _This_ ,” Sam says again, like that clarifies anything at all. “Just,” he gestures vaguely, “all of it. I want to skip to the part where this is over.”

Bucky smiles, though there’s something sad in the twist of his lips. “If only it were that easy.”

Sam nods and turns around, grabbing a pair of sweatpants. “Yeah, if only.” Once they’re on he turns back around and shoves his hands into the pockets. He takes a deep breath and says, “You asked me, before, what the marks on my chest were.”

Bucky’s face falls into neat lines and he leans forward slightly, listing toward the information like he has been for weeks now. “And you’re going to tell me about them today?”

“No,” Sam says. Then, “Maybe.”

“Okay,” Bucky replies. “Coffee first?”

For once, no. Sam shakes his head and sits back down beside Bucky, leans back on his hands. They’re silent for a few minutes before Sam says, “You were right.”

“About what?”

“They’re tallies.”

He feels more than he sees Bucky freeze beside him, but he doesn’t give the man time to get another question out. Sam has talked about some of the things BVK did to him, but this wasn’t one of them, couldn’t be included. He’s not sure what about last night made him want to mention it today. “There are 24 of them.”

“Can I ask something?” Bucky wonders quietly. He makes sure to ask for permission before digging in ever since the time Sam shut down on him for two days. It’s not walking on eggshells by any standards, just polite and cautious.

Sam looks at him for a second and then back to where his eyes were trained on the light switch on the wall. “Depends on what kind of question you ask.”

Bucky’s hand inches closer to Sam’s. “Did they tell you why they were doing it?”

“Because I lied,” Sam says evenly. He made peace with that decision the same second it was made. He wouldn’t take it back.

“Were you even lying?”

Sam looks down at where their hands are almost touching and says, “I started to.”

Bucky’s lips thin out. “To protect someone?”

He nods.

“Who?”

Sam links their pinkies together, like a promise. “Someone I care about.”

**Stage Five: Upward turn.**

Bucky isn’t stupid. He’s incredibly perceptive, more smart than he would have you believe, and crafty. Which means he’s _playing_ stupid. And that’s definitely worse.

 If he was truly unaware of Sam’s feelings then the way they’re sitting together on the couch right now wouldn’t be an issue. Pressed together on the couch, front to back, in the middle of the day. Sam doesn’t need to be so close to Bucky when the sun is out like this – _yes_ it still makes him feel better, but it’s not necessary. But here they are, _snuggling_ , and Bucky is pretending he doesn’t know damn well who Sam got roughed up for. It’s almost annoying, but Sam also hates the idea of confronting the subject.

Bucky shifts and hooks his chin over Sam’s shoulder. “You doin’ okay? You’re usually a lot more vocal about how awful Bobby Flay is.”

Sam holds his breath. He hadn’t even realized he zoned out for so long. He lets the air out in a rush and then shrugs. “I’m fine. Just got a little distracted.”

“A little distracted huh?” Bucky slides back to his original position. “For a whole thirty minutes.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Sam responds with a huff.

Bucky lets out a quiet laugh. “C’mon, what’s going on up there?”

“Nothing.”

“Is that like, a real nothing or a _something_ nothing.”

Sam shifts and crosses his arms, which is all for show because it’s incredibly uncomfortable to do while laying down on your side. “None of your business nothing.”

Bucky moves backward and lets Sam fall onto his back. “Is it one of _those_ things?”

“No,” Sam says, rolling his eyes. When Bucky gives him a look he adds, “Really.”

“Promise?” Bucky says, and honestly that hurts more than being stabbed.

Sam frowns. “Yeah. I promise. It’s just –” _you_.

“What?” Bucky asks when Sam trails off far too long.

Sam turns onto his side again and sighs, long and loud. “Nothing.”

Bucky falls back into place along Sam. “Sure sounds like something.”

“Drop it.”

A set of arms find their way around Sam’s middle. The cold metal sends goosebumps tracking up Sam’s stomach. “I take it Bobby Flay _did_ annoy you then.”

Sam snorts. “He’s not the guy I’m thinking about right now.”

Bucky’s quiet for a moment and Sam realizes then that he chose the wrong words. He closes his eyes when Bucky moves to look at him. “What guy _are_ you thinking about?” Bucky asks, all too intrigued.

“How much money would it take for you to forget I said that?”

“ _Sam_ ,” Bucky says, like a warning. “If this is about Bur–”

“It’s not about _him_ ,” Sam says before Bucky can finish the name. He opens his eyes. “Definitely not him.”

Bucky deflates a little at that. “Someone better or worse?”

“Better,” Sam laughs. “So much better.”

A wicked grin spreads across Bucky’s lips. “ _Oh_.”

“‘Oh,’ what Barnes? What do you think you know?” Sam asks as he turns around to face him completely.

“This is about a guy you like.”

Sam narrows his eyes but doesn’t say anything.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Bucky says. It’s every bit a challenge. He lowers his voice and leans forward, this time a lot more serious. “Tell me I’m wrong, Sam.”

Sam’s eyes skirt from Bucky’s suddenly heavy gaze down to his lips. They snap back up just in time for Sam to get out, “You haven’t guessed anyone yet.”

“I don’t think I need to,” He replies, haughty almost. Bucky’s thumb traces over the hair on Sam’s chin softly. Their mouths are so close now that Sam can feel everything Bucky says.

“What if _I’m_ wrong?”

Bucky leans back again and takes one of Sam’s hands into his. He threads their fingers together and brings Sam’s hand to his mouth. “You’re not,” Bucky assures him, just before he kisses the top of it.

Sam’s breath catches in his throat. He considers the timing of this – whether or not they should be waiting, how broken they both are in their own uniquely horrible ways. And then Sam considers the fact that there may _never_ be a right time with them. Their worlds aren’t perfect, and they certainly aren’t either. Maybe now is as good a time as either of them will ever get. A nice, sunny afternoon in the Iowan countryside, laying together watching food network shows.

Bucky lets Sam’s hand go and presses his lips together. He looks like he’s about to second guess everything they’re discussing without _actually_ saying, but Sam pulls him forward by the back of his neck. “You’ve got weird taste.”

Bucky smiles, and it’s obnoxious how soft it makes him look. “You’re the one with a crush on an assassin.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Not a very good one. You couldn’t even get rid of _me_ , and I’m human.”

Bucky huffs. “Throw a guy off a helicarrier _one time_.” His smile fades into something a little more shy as he rests his forehead against Sam’s. “Besides, I think I picked the right person.”

“Yeah?” Sam asks. It’s half playful, but it’s that other half that matters. The half that’s begging to know what Bucky thinks he’s getting into.

“Absolutely,” Bucky says. He brings his hand to Sam’s cheek and guides their mouths together for something simple and soft. Like a hello to whatever new thing is blossoming between them. “You’re one of a kind bird boy.”

Sam smiles. He loves an idiot. “You’re not so bad yourself, Optimus Prime.”

Bucky kisses Sam again, more insistent this time. Their tongues briefly come together, a pleasant exploration of each other’s mouths, and the two of them sigh. Happy. When Bucky pulls away he drops a soft kiss on Sam’s nose. “I know. Someone told me I’ve ‘done a lot of good in the world, too,’ when they thought I was asleep.”

“You were _listening_?” Sam squawks.

Bucky settles back into the couch and moves Sam right where he wants him. He hooks his chin over Sam’s shoulder again and says, “Not my fault you thought I was sleeping when they took me out of cryo. Figured I’d let it go so you wouldn’t get embarrassed.”

            Sam groans. “If only you’d let it go a little longer.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Bucky asks. He kisses Sam’s chin and sighs, then, quietly, “Thank you.”

Sam lets himself get comfortable in Bucky’s arms, let’s himself enjoy the day for once, and says, “You too.”

**Stage Six: Hope.**

            “I think we deserve a soft epilogue, my love. We are good people and we’ve suffered enough.” – Nikka Ursula.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I briefly considered doing this chapter in Bucky's POV, but instead I decided that if I were to do anything from Bucky's POV for this story that I'd just make a companion piece.  
> So, chew on that for a bit and let me know if you think this fic deserves a companion with Bucky's thoughts and fears.
> 
> Love you guys, thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> [Come harass me on tumblr.](http://bioloyg.tumblr.com)


End file.
